by Grace Draven
She surrendered her now empty bowl to Halani, who nodded. “Indeed. Some who thieve think nothing of murdering their marks. You’re fortunate your husband knew how to fight.” A wistful note entered her voice. “He’s a handsome man who obviously cares for you. That’s a treasure none can steal.”
Gilene was saved from replying to that profound misconception by the arrival of a woman older than Halani but with similar features. The space in the wagon grew a little more cramped as she lingered at the entrance and grinned, eyes bright with a child’s curiosity.
Halani gestured to her. “This is my mother, Asil. Mama, this is Gilene, Valdan’s wife.”
Asil waved, and again Gilene had the notion that she faced a child wearing an adult woman’s face. She recalled Azarion’s earlier threat to kill their hosts if Gilene revealed his identity. He had said Halani’s mother was simple.
Even Asil’s voice was that of a much younger girl, high and sweet. “Hamod says come to the front, Hali. He wants to talk to you.”
Halani sighed. “Hamod is my uncle,” she clarified for Gilene. “I’ll return soon. Mama, can you help Gilene if she needs it while I’m gone?”
As soon as Halani exited the wagon, Asil scooted closer, and her smile turned beseeching. “Can I braid your hair? It’s very soft.”
Gilene wondered what had happened to Asil that made her the child and her daughter the parent. There was an engaging appeal about the older woman, an innocence in her interactions that most people had lost by the time they were nine or ten years of age.
Gilene’s hair felt stuck to her scalp, in need of a good washing and thorough combing. She welcomed Asil’s request. “Of course, though I don’t have a comb.”
The other woman practically bounced where she sat. Her hand dove into a pocket of her colorful apron, emerging with a prized comb. “I do,” she crowed, her smile growing larger. “And I’ll be gentle; I promise.”
She fluffed the pillows higher behind Gilene, tucked the blanket under her arms, and set to unraveling the locks of hair that had tangled themselves into mats. Asil was still working at her task with gusto and regaling Gilene with anecdotes regarding the caravan and its close-knit members when her daughter returned.
Halani sighed, though her features were soft with affection as she gazed at her mother. “You are the worst sort of gossip, Mama. What nonsense have you been pouring into Gilene’s ear while I was gone?”
Asil laughed, the sound one of such joy it almost brought tears to Gilene’s eyes. She couldn’t recall the last time she heard anyone laugh in such a way. “All true, Hali. You know I don’t lie. You remember when Supan’s breeches fell down around his ankles while he was courting that girl in Silfer?” More peals of laughter, and Halani and Gilene joined her.
“We’re a ridiculous lot sometimes, Gilene, but it makes for good stories,” Halani said.
Gilene hid a wince when Asil’s comb snagged on a particularly nasty knot. “I like Asil’s stories. They speak of family and love between you.” Something thin and frayed in her own family. There was duty and devotion, both driven by guilt, and not much else.
She wondered what her mother and siblings were doing at the moment, whether they fretted over her and worried for her safety. The village as a whole, she knew, would be in a state of panic. Someone had taken their fire witch, the one person they relied on to protect the other village women from the Rites of Spring each year. She shook away the growing darkness of her thoughts. They had no place here with two women who knew her as nothing other than Gilene, wife of Valdan.
“I tell funny stories, but Hali tells the best ones,” Asil bragged of her daughter. “One each night after supper if she isn’t sick or the rest of us too tired.”
“Or too bored,” Halani quipped back.
Asil’s expression creased into an indignant pinch. “No one is ever bored with your stories, Hali.”
Halani bent and kissed the top of her mother’s head. “If you say so, Mama.” She straightened and gave Gilene a wink. “When she’s done combing out your hair, we can help you dress and leave the wagon to get some air. It will do your legs good to walk about. That’s if you’re up to it.”
Gilene leapt at the offer, achy from lying down for so long and desperate to see the sky. “Oh yes, I’m well enough for that.”
Halani bent to a basket wedged between a chest and a wagon bow. “I washed your clothes while you healed.” She pulled a neatly folded tunic out of the basket and shook out the wrinkles. “We’re near a stream and will camp close by for the night. Valdan says he’ll take you there so you can bathe. You can wear this tunic for now, and take your clothes with you to dress once you’re done.”
The offer of a bath excited her, and Gilene swore she could hear the trickling murmur of the stream. Still she hesitated. Her reason warned her that to go alone was far too dangerous, even for a healthy woman fleet of foot, and at the moment, she was neither of those. The thought of Azarion acting as her watchdog seemed just as threatening. “I don’t want to bother . . . my husband.” The word stung her tongue, and she did her best to hide her distaste. Halani’s puzzled look hinted she might not have succeeded.
“I’m sure he won’t mind, and it would be best if your man went with you. We’re not far off the traveler road, and it’s mostly safe, but not all those who travel it are.”
To argue would undoubtedly raise suspicion. Gilene let it go and occupied the remainder of the time Asil worked on her hair in idle chat with her and Halani. When Azarion came to fetch her, her hair was combed smooth, and she wore the tunic Halani gave her. Someone had brushed her shoes free of dust and even mended a hole in the side where her small toe had rubbed through the worn leather. Outside, the temperature carried the snap of an early spring chill, and she shivered in anticipation of an unforgiving bath in an icy stream.
Still, she breathed in the fresh air gratefully. The wagon bed was far more comfortable than the hard portico floor of a broken temple in a haunted city, but her muscles craved movement and her lungs the green scent of the forest around them. Brightly painted wagons formed a circle under an oak grove’s newly leafed canopy, and through the spaces between the tree trunks and the wagons she caught sight of the ribbon of dusty road that marked the caravan path.
Curious members of Halani’s trader band came up to introduce themselves, some to offer her good health, others to do no more than stare for a moment or nod and move on to whatever task called their attention. Hamod, the man Halani called uncle and Asil called brother, was one of the ones whose gray gaze bore holes into her before he gave a cursory tilt of his head and walked away. He reminded Gilene of Azarion in a way.
When the gladiator arrived, he eyed her up and down before finally speaking. “You’re feeling better, wife.” The term spilled easily off his lips. He bowed briefly to Halani and Asil. “You’re in fine hands with these two.” Asil giggled and blushed while Halani gave a small bow before tugging her mother away from them.
“You can keep the soap cake if there’s any left, Gilene,” she called back over her shoulder.
Gilene hugged her laundered clothes and gift of soap to her chest and returned Azarion’s stare with a bland one of her own. “As much and as easily as you lie, how do you remember what the truth is?” She shouldn’t goad him. He hadn’t yet used violence against her physically, only threatened to hurt others if she didn’t cooperate, and that was bad enough. Still, he was more than capable of killing her with no more effort than it took to kill a chicken. She didn’t want to die. She couldn’t die. Not yet at least.
Her insult rolled off him. “I remember because I must. There’s always a grain of truth embedded in a lie.” He gestured for her to walk beside him as he headed toward the stream Halani mentioned.
“I am not, never have been, and never will be your wife,” she snapped as she fell in step beside him.
His exasperated snort s
ent a vapor cloud streaming out of his nostrils to dissipate in the cold air. “To these people you are. Thus, a truth.” His green gaze flickered to her. “How are your burns?”
His unexpected inquiry almost made her stumble. Had that truly been a question of concern or one of self-interest? He was so unpredictable. Threatening and cold one moment, solicitous the next. “Healing,” she said, wary of this conversation. She noted the way he walked, the concentrated rhythm of his breathing. “Your ribs?”
He gave another one of those annoying, indifferent shrugs. “Hurting but I’ll live. I’ve dealt with worse.”
Of that, she had no doubt, though something in his tone made her glance at him twice, a jagged splinter of emotion that spoke of more than just physical pain.
He snagged her hand in his and held on, even as she tried to pull free. He tightened his hold. “Half the caravan is watching us. Act as if you at least like me.”
“But I don’t like you, and I’m not the gifted liar you seem to be.”
“Is that so? Tell that to the Empire, Flower of Spring.”
His mouth twitched at one corner at her wordless growl, even as she allowed her fingers to relax in his palm and cursed his name under her breath.
They reached the stream without further argument, and Azarion let go when Gilene yanked her hand out of his clasp hard enough to nearly lose her balance and fall into the water. She refused the steadying hand he offered and hugged her folded clothing even closer. Water rilled over the tops of her shoes, soaking through the leather to chill her feet. Getting clean trumped the desire to stay warm, but this would be unpleasant bathing at best.
She scowled at Azarion, who eased down on a flat swath of stone at the stream’s edge. Unlike her, he looked clean and refreshed, his hair thick and soft where it grazed his shoulders. A burnished glow sheened the brown skin of his face and arms. Even the places where bruises and healing cuts mottled his flesh didn’t detract from his looks. Unbothered by the damp stream spray, he turned his face up to the sun, eyes slitted nearly closed against the golden light spilling through the clouds.
If she didn’t despise him so much, she might appreciate his beauty.
He slanted her a look. “Are you going to bathe or just stand there all day staring at me?”
If she didn’t need the soap, she’d throw it at him. “Turn your back. I’ll not have you watching me bathe.”
“You possess nothing I haven’t already seen a hundred times,” he said. “And you may need my help.”
“I need you to free me so I can return to Beroe.”
He stood again and approached. “So you’ve said. Often.” He tapped his left shoulder. “Lean on me. I’ll help you remove your tunic.”
As much as she hated to admit it, she did need his help. After three days in a bed, her legs were unsteady, and she tired quickly. The short walk to the stream had drained what energy she still had from earlier, and the clothes she held felt more like an armful of rocks than skirts and a tunic. Azarion relieved her of her burden, letting her keep the soap, and put her clean garb on the rock he’d abandoned.
“Raise your arms,” he instructed. “I’ll ease the tunic over your head.” She followed his command, her back protesting the movement, the place where her magic had marked stretching tight the higher she lifted her arms. But there was no pain, just the stretching. Halani’s poultices had worked a magic of their own.
She put aside her crumbling modesty upon noting Azarion’s lack of interest in her naked body. Instead, his gaze locked with hers. “You may be healing,” he said. “And I may be injured, but I can still run you to ground and bring you back if you try to escape. And I will tie you to me if necessary.”
Cold and nakedness forgotten, Gilene worked up a froth of saliva and prepared to spit in her opponent’s face.
“Do it, and I’ll just spit back,” he warned.
“So much for fooling others into thinking I like you,” she snarled. “What will they think seeing me tethered to you?”
“That you’re a faithless shrew deserving of a beating once I toss aside my pride and admit I caught you trying to return to your lover.” He grabbed her hand and dropped the soap into her palm. “Take your soap and get to washing. We can’t be here all day. Keep your shoes on. There might be sharp rocks in the water.”
The temptation to reach down, grab a handful of those rocks, and pelt him with them was almost more than she could resist. Instead, she clambered through the calf-high water to sit partially submerged in the icy stream. Her teeth chattered hard enough to make her head hurt as she soaped her body and then her hair, giving both a thorough scrubbing. By the time she finished, her toes and hands were numb, and her breasts ached. There was nothing left of the soap.
She tried to stand on her own, only to find Azarion suddenly in the water with her, blessedly warm hands under her shoulders and knees to lift and carry her back to the sun-heated rock. He waited while she dried off, then helped her dress. She tried not to dwell on the soothing touch.
Her feet were still cold in their wet shoes, and her damp hair left a soggy trail down her back, but the rest of her was soon thawing out in the familiar layers of her clothing.
“Your burns look much better,” Azarion observed. “They shouldn’t scar like these others. Did you get these from the magic as well?”
She was reluctant to tell him any more about herself than he already knew. He had a talent for turning information to his benefit and against the person who gave it to him. “Yes.” At least he showed no revulsion for her scars. Many who saw them did, as if she were somehow to blame for them. “Halani didn’t ask me about my other scars. Did she say anything to you?”
Azarion shook his head. “Don’t be surprised by that. These people are prudent with their curiosity. The less they ask about you, the less you’ll ask about them.”
As they walked back to the camp, he continued questioning her. “Do you feel well enough to leave the wagon and sleep outside?”
Even if she didn’t, she’d follow his example and lie that she did. Halani and Asil had given up their home for a sick stranger. Gilene didn’t know if they bedded down in other wagons with family or friends, or slept under the open sky, but it was time they got their home back. Her back and leg no longer hurt, and while she was tired from lingering illness, she didn’t need to sleep in their bed.
“Halani and Asil have been more than kind, and I miss seeing the sky at night. Maybe I can beg a pallet and a blanket from them. It would be nice to sleep under the stars.”
She frowned at the pleased expression that settled over his face. “Good. You can sleep outside with me. Hamod’s given me a pallet and several blankets to serve us both.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Trust me, the hospitality of these traders has been bought with the knife I used on that Kraelian tracker. Halani and Asil are good women, but don’t make the mistake in thinking the same applies to the rest, especially Hamod. You’ll be safer sleeping next to me, and as you’re my wife, it’s expected.”
His reason was as maddening as his threats. “The evil I know versus the one I don’t?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
The caravan leader met them at the edge of camp. The camp itself was alive and loud with people setting up for the evening, preparing supper, and admonishing the half dozen shrieking children who tumbled through the chaos, chasing the caravan dogs or each other. Hamod spoke to Gilene this time, though his gaze was no less penetrating than before. “My niece has taken good care of you, mistress?”
Gilene spotted Halani among the crowd, talking to a stout man cutting onions on a makeshift table under one of the oaks. “She has. You’re fortunate to have her. She’s a gifted healer. I thank you both for helping us.”
Hamod gave a quick nod. “Your husband traded a good knife. It was a fair bargain.” He tipped a quick nod to Azarion. “Our cook will make goo
d use of the game you trapped today. We’ll eat well tonight.”
Gilene watched him leave before turning back to Azarion. “You’re hunting for them?”
Azarion’s gaze remained on Hamod’s retreating back even as he answered. “I learned how to lay a trap when I was a child. It’s a useful skill on the Stara Dragana and an appreciated one when taking shelter with others.”
Gilene initially thought her captor was only good at fighting in the Pit. It was easy to forget that, like her, there was more to him than the life forced upon him by the whims of the Empire. The notion didn’t endear him to her, but it did make her wonder what he had been like before his enslavement.
People noticed them standing at the camp’s perimeter and quickly drew them into its circle. With Halani’s and Asil’s help, Gilene learned the names of everyone in the caravan, lamenting to herself she’d only remember half at best by the next morning. The temperature dropped as afternoon waned, and a woman brought her a shawl while another offered a pair of slippers to wear until hers dried. She protested Halani’s insistence that she sit on a blanket set not far from one of the fires, only relenting when the woman handed her two half-woven baskets.
“Can you weave a basket?”
Gilene clutched the baskets as if they were bags of gold coins. “In my sleep if need be.” It wasn’t a boast. Like Azarion and his game trapping, she’d learned the art of basket weaving while barely free of her mother’s lead strings. Her nimble fingers worked the strands of blackberry vines stripped of their thorns, and she sniffed appreciatively at the fragrant steam rising out of two cauldrons suspending over a fire nearby. Behind her, Asil sat and combed out the few tangles Gilene had gotten from her hair washing, before braiding the strands into a neat, simple plait.
Firelight illuminated the camp in flickering patches that chased shadows across the tree trunks. Gilene sat, facing away from the road toward the forest’s interior. The ever-flitting light exposed for brief moments the hulking shape of something tucked farther back into the trees. She turned a little to address Asil over her shoulder. “Do you know what that is behind those trees?” She pointed in the direction of the unmoving silhouette.
